


Black Rain: Absorb or die

by AE Staten (BlondieTVJunkie)



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Action, Drama, F/M, Gritty, Humor, Relationship(s), Sexual Content, Suspense, Thriller, apocalyptic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 10:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5160539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlondieTVJunkie/pseuds/AE%20Staten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Opening 2.5 years after the fall of Atlanta and Philadelphia, “Black Rain” is a rewrite of season two of NBC's "Revolution."</p><p>The story of “Revolution” began in great loss. Loss of society, loss of structure, of family, and of love.<br/>Season one’s journey became a plight of a displaced people in a broken world — fighting to survive it. </p><p>Our characters were entrenched in a desire for freedom and pride for country so great, that they warred at all costs for liberty and retribution. Their internal war with humanity's dark truths and a resilient hope of what could be — drew us in and in turn, invested us in their story.</p><p>"Black Rain" takes these concepts and explores them more richly. Every word yearns to dwell deep into the heart of our characters and their evolution, in time defined by death. </p><p>Ultimately, “Black Rain” aims to seek answers. In the aftermath of great trauma, what has been made of our characters? How much has it thwarted the people we once knew?</p><p>And if the extraordinary nature of their world refuses to relent… what becomes of them? </p><p>Their world? </p><p>Their soul?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction and Author's Notes

**Author's Note:**

> Do have burning questions? Want a spoiler? Or just really want to chat? PLEASE feel free to! Or if you have any questions! I'd love to answer! You can find me on Tumblr @BlondieTvJunkie or on email: blondietvjunkie@gmail.com
> 
> I'm clearly a nerd and will talk as much as you need!
> 
> TY  
> XO

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Author’s notes**

 

My whole life I have loved the art of storytelling. _Revolution_ was concept that resonated with me, however there were issues I had with the show's direction. So, for many reasons I decided to omit the entirety of season two, and focus on a story that I had envisioned, anchored by a strong character-driven narrative and a thirst for authenticity.

Realistically if the events of season one were to happen — the affect on a human heart would be horrific — dramatically shifting a person in a number of ways. Much of which is wrenching and difficult. Because of that, _Black Rain_ takes the story darker than the show portrayed, in an effort to dive into the core of who these characters really are, in response to what they lived through in season one and the events they have yet to face..

Though a darker story at times, as in real life, we are never without hope. Essentially that’s what this story is: the struggle of reality within themselves and striving for life and redemption amongst the ruin and the rage.

 

**Key points:**

  * I treat each chapter as an episode of the cable version of _Revolution_ — on HBO or alike, that allows for grittier language and imagery. (I've transitioned this as consistently with the characters themselves, as I believe it would be.)
  * _Black Rain_ is structured in three parts.
  * My version of the story will not contain the Sci-Fi elements that were a focal in season two. So, if you are here for a story about Nanites, this isn't the story for you.
  * As with most TV shows, I introduce new characters and build on ones you may not expect.
  * Not all season one characters have main roles in my rewrite.
  * I have known many military veterans and have a background as part of a military family. PTSD is something I know first hand and I myself have struggled with some of this. I use a great deal of personal experience to paint the picture of each character's path.
  * I'm not going to coddle you and be TELLING you everything. Example: The prologue is not going to be spelled out. I trust you are smart. That you can put pieces together and go with the mystery!
  * GOOGLE! If there is terminology you are not familiar with etc., just like any film or book you read.
  * CODA: at the end of a chapter, you may find a scene of the following chapter, as a teaser.
  * If you have any concerns or questions feel free to ask!
  * It’s good idea to be fresh on season one!
  * I LOVE Easter eggs, foreshadowing, and hidden symbolism... so pro-tip! Titles too!
  * The quotes for each chapter mark its theme.
  * _With that said, I also have Neurological Lyme Disease that unfortunately makes this process very difficult. I will do my best to present this story but I may be delayed by pain or function — in error grammatically or alike — so, please be kind!_



 

**Canon Alterations**

Just a couple of details of season one, will be amended and/or elaborated on from the canon, to serve the story — but not so much that it takes from the foundation season one laid. They are as follows, including biographies.

1) Bass' affair with Emma:

The flashback scenes in "Home" show Miles and his girlfriend Emma, as well as Bass, hanging out together one night, around 2000-ish in time frame. Later in the episode, in present time, Bass has Emma at gunpoint. She tells him she has a son. We learn through another flashback to that night, that Emma and Bass had an affair. Due to this, we are led to believe that night was the time of pregnancy.

> My alteration here is that you walk away — very aware there was an affair, that there is a child, but **not 100% of WHEN the child was conceived**. Did the affair continue? A later date? How old is this kid? Where is he? That is the mentality I ask you to have.

How does this change the story? It doesn't. At this point in the story, we know very little. The affair still holds weight and has the same consequences. The back story will just unfold differently than what season two made of it. And this will be told in my fiction at some point.

 

2) Season one ending:

My fiction ends as the following: Aaron disables the program running the Nanities; power restores; Flynn's bombs are launched and he commits suicide, right after speaking the words, "I'm a patriot." Bass witnesses an electrical storm; Power dies. Fade back.

What does that mean?

• "Mr. President."  
This ending of season one, is omitted. There is no phone and no president. There is no Cuba.

• NOTE: Power. This is a biggie. REALITY is, even if the nanities stopped absorbing power, years of war and time, would break electricity’s infrastructure — power plants, telephone poles, etc., power would not poof turn on, as the show depicted in the global shots. So, Tom's wife seeing a light go on... it's not reality. I do not want to alter your season one base very much. But authentically, as I re-write season two, just remember the electrical storm and power going out.

• The motivation by Randall Flynn to commit the acts of season one, will be addressed.

 

 

**Biographies**

Miles:

• Miles is three years older than Bass; an older brother figure, which is shown in Bass' attachment to Miles.

• Miles graduated high school in 2000.

• He went to college and upon graduation in 2004 went into the Marine Corps as an officer at the age of 22.

• He was in the Corps for 8 years and deployed twice.

• At time of blackout, he was 30-years-old.

• At the start of season one he was 45-years-old.

 

(Military side note: In the show Bass/Miles were stationed at Paris Island Marine Base in South Carolina. This is not accurate in accordance to the story or the Marine Corps. It is a recruiting depot, where you go for boot camp, not a base they would be stationed, based on the billet of the type of marines the show made of them. In my story, they were stationed at Camp Lejune in North Carolina.]

 

Bass:

• Bass graduated high school in 2003.

• He did not go to college, so he enlisted as a infantryman in 2004, at the age of 18.

• At time of blackout, he was 27-years-old.

• At the start of season one he was 42-years-old.

 

Charlie:

• Born 2005.

• 7-years-old at blackout. This fits the story more accurately, given flashbacks and Danny's stated age of 19, in season one.

• 22 at start of season one and entering into my fiction she is in her mid-20s.

 

* * *

 

A special thank you and dedication to my dear friend "VampFan" (conceal her real name for privacy). You have been not just an amazing sounding board in this process, but a great friend! I can't thank you enough!

Also included is several people that read and gave notes, some full-on edits. (AMAZING!) Willow Black, Christy, MotherRunner, Loveforthestory, and several others. THANK YOU so very much for your time and heart!

 

_Disclaimer: I have a background in writing for public relations and marketing. I've worked within television production, but I have never written full-length fiction. Again, with that said, I also have Neurological Lyme Disease that unfortunately makes this process very difficult and I fear I may not be running at full brain capacity for this to be all I'd want it to be. Hoping I don't suck!_

 

_Please feel free to contact me if you have any questions! I'd love to answer! You can find me on Tumblr @BlondieTvJunkie or on email: blondietvjunkie@gmail.com_

 

Thank you,

XO

A.E.

 


	2. Character Profiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is designed in three parts. Part one is four chapters. Each reach out to discover where our characters are 2.5 years after the the fall of Atlanta and Philadelphia. Below are notable character profiles for part one — including new characters for this season two rewrite. 
> 
> XO

 

Main cast:

 

 

Supporting cast:

 

 

  



	3. Epigraph

 ~~~~

 

The dryness of sand can fill your lungs and choke you with it. Lost in a barren land, Its heat would wither you away and no two pairs of eyes would see. It is death — and not a quick one. No, for that would be mercy, and mercy does not live there.

This is the torment of savage pain. Its anguish invades your soul and consumes it in the dark.

There is no veil...no shadow will save you.  
Escape does not exist — you can't outrun it,  
for it is within you.

The internal rage eventually gnaws loose — rupturing violently. The ruins manifest divergently in each human heart. But in the end, this story always goes one of two ways:

You absorb the pain or choke.

That is...

_You absorb or you die._

 

 

 

 

 

_-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definition of an Epigraph: a short passage, quotation or saying at the beginning of a book or chapter, intended to suggest its theme.


	4. Prologue: The Hibakusha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "coda" — first scene teaser for chapter one, is at the end of the prologue. Pay attention to the photograph. Information and Easter eggs are within it. (I did that all by hand, so take the time really zoom in and read!)

"The hour was early; the morning still, warm, and beautiful. Suddenly, a strong flash of light startled me and then another ...

The view where a moment before had been so bright and sunny was now dark and hazy ...

To my surprise I discovered that I was completely naked ... I began to yell for her, 'Yaeko-san! Yaeko-san! Where are you?'

Blood began to spurt. Had my carotid artery been cut? Would I bleed to death?

**_— Hachiya Michihiko, Hiroshima Diary, 1955_ **

~~~

“These are the times that try men's souls: The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service

of his country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.

**_— Thomas Paine, The American Crisis, 1776_ **

 

 

 

**It was once predicted that a detonation on New York of a single nuclear bomb would birth a fallout plume extending the length of Long Island, taking five million souls with it. Tragically the height of lethality would not come from ground zero, but from radiation and the incapacity to respond with medical care.**

**The multitudes would perish, not because the human body couldn't survive it, but because there would be no one to treat the wounds that scourged them.**

**History had already proved it.**

**In 1943, at Hiroshima, there were 75,000 Japanese that died in an instant. Over the days and months that came, another 75,000 went with them. Those that survived were maimed, scarred, and broken beyond repair — the survivors became the only eyes in which we should see; the only voices to which we should lend our ear. Yearning prayers, rising as bloody cries — that the past should never be lived again.**

**_Their voices went unheeded._ _  
_**

 

* * *

 

A middle-aged man steps up to the podium of a small stadium-style lecture hall.

“OK, no bullshit. Chug your coffee and strap it on…this is going to hurt.”

The stack of bound papers in his hands are thick. Meticulously he begins to sort — flipping through the pages in a seemingly invisible race.

“OK. Orange brief.” His silver ponytail is low and tight; goatee untrimmed. “Let’s take it from the top…here we go…day three.”

A couple dozen onlookers sit before him. Clean-cut professionals, side-arm-carrying security types, and harsh looking ones — with grime in their nails and dirt on their boots. 

Different people, but the same face — a heaviness that seems to have drained them to their core.

“The first pages are initial renderings and working estimates… Now, page two…you’ll see detonation has been narrowed to 0100 hours, give or take on the twenty-third. For those not up with 24 hour time, learn it. That’s 1:00 AM… What we do know is, ground zero centers at former Turner Field….” He lifts his brief up in the air. The motion untucks the tail of his dress shirt.“See pre-blackout diagrams in back for reference. As of now, the blast radius is here, between 1 and 2 km—“  
  
A hand raises. “Jim?”  
  
“Yeah, Jacks?”

About mid-30s — his scruffy beard likens to the scratch in his voice. “Probably closer to two.”  
  
“OK, thanks... As you know, Jacks and his crew just got back... Any details not included, find him later…. ”  
  
He gulps on a large mug, situated at his left. "Page five. As you see in this sketch, downtown took the brunt, leveling is at 80%, yes… including all government buildings… And no, those numbers are not inflated.” Jim slows down and presses against the podium. “And before anyone asks…no update on the president. _Again,_ as stated last night, all we know is she did not make extraction point.”  
  
From the front row , one of the clean-cut professionals, starts taping her pen to the wood of the desk. 

“Yeah… Carol…something to share?”  
  
"I'm going to pretend you were less ornery with that question, Jim." She twists at her waist to meet the blood-shot eyes around her. “For the couple of you who don’t know me,I talk fast, so try to keep up,” she states. “Not to be the bitch Jim…but I’m 59 and can no longer call myself a blonde. It’s been a shit two decades. And let’s be frank… I’m sitting in a coffee-saturated suit that I’ve been wearing for a week…which post script,” she pats, “soaked through to my now sticky breasts.”

Little chuckles filter the room, sparking some chatter.

Carol pops her shoulder. “Oh look Jimmy,” she sasses, “they’re alive.”

Jim slams his eyes shut and rubs under the frame of his glasses, to the crevice of his nose. “You're killing me, Carol. Your point? You must have one.”

Carol tilts her head just slightly, pausing. Her chin-length bob, staying perfectly in place. “I do. Thank you.” She sternly raises her voice. “What the fuck are we doing?”

The attendees around her shuffle in their seats, eying at her theatrics. Others lift their brow at the man before them, for an answer. 

“You've been at this a long time, Carol. This is an assessment phase—“

“Jim, hold your mug. I'm very aware of what this is. But I'm also very aware we're at seventy-four hours and ticking. We would be doing this operation a serious disservice if we don't start running scenarios right now… Because red alert gentleman, also unaccounted for is Scott Miller.”

Almost collectively, briefs flip close; elbows hit desk tops.

“Go ahead let out your sighs, but it gets worse.” She inches off her square glasses…leaning forward on her elbows. “Jim, it’s possible he was visiting his parents in Little Five Points.”

“Well, fuck!” The impact of Jim’s hand slamming against the podium, sends his papers flying. “How long have you been sitting on this?”  
  
“Not long, I wanted to be sure.”  
  
“Wanted to be sure! How the—“

There is a knock at the side door. A young brunette peeps her head in and gestures to Jacks — who hurries down the steps to her.  
  
“Jacks take her outside! This is a closed meeting!” He collects his pages, allowing for a silence. Several sets of hands extend — only to be brought down.

“I'm sorry, Jim.” Carol asserts. “But if the president and the Governor of Alabama are dead, coupled with,” she slaps her brief, “this nightmare…the entire landscape changes. And I’m not talking terrain. One, this is not 2001, we don’t have the ability to openly clear the destruction. And two, it’s a a decade of work...gone.”

“Dammit! We don’t know that, Carol—”

“She’s not wrong, Jim,” Shafiq, a young, soft-spoken, Middle Eastern man interjects. He looks down to read. “75% of Georgia’s population resided downtown. Philadelphia is not appearing any better. Potentially worse. The majority of our northern assets have not made contact. They were given appropriate time to evacuate. The intel would suggest they are in essence, quiting. But, statistically, that does not hinder our primary infrastructure, due to the breakdown of Militia. On that point, we're in better position." He switches briefs. "Birmingham and others...if we expedite this phase. Move quickly. We should be able to essentially stop the bleeding.”

“I know what it says, Shafiq, I wrote it.”

“Well, read them again, Jimmy!” Carol says. “We’re witnessing the fall of the South. And with it….” She thrusts her arm out to a point. ”Everything half of Shafiq’s team died for. Repeat word. Died. The sooner we face reality of this blowback, the quicker we recover.“

Urgently, Jacks walks through the door, carrying a small tin lock box in his hand. “Jim. You need to see this."  
  
“Well, might as well bring it before the class,” Jim torts, waving his arm wide, giving Jacks the floor. He situates on a side stool — the hem of his pants raising to bare ankles; papers on his disheveled lap.   


A solid foot taller than Jim — Jacks grips the side of the podium. His forearms flex and his shoulders appear taut under his black t-shirt. Immediately his presence adds a sense of authority that draws his viewers at bit more upright.

“Forgive the voice. Long few days.” He coughs to clear his throat. “Last…last night my team recovered what's essentially an unmarked fire-proof case. For obvious reasons pictures were taken of its contents and the case put back in place.“

The lid creeks as it open; the rust of age. “It's contents…a GFA-AAF.”  
  
“You might have to explain that one doll…for the kids,” Carol says.

“Oh, right.” Jacks itches at his overgrown undercut. “AAF stands for after action report. It’s standard procedure following any set of events, or mission, deemed necessary for review…though it should be clarified I have not read this in full and this an out-of-the-ordinary structure.”

“Well, please don't leave us in suspense. Use that pretty face.”  
  
“Yes ma’am,” he shys. His light eyes pop against the sun-pink of his angled cheeks.

“Oh that southern accent!” she sasses. ”Keep on calling me, ma’am.”  
  
“Really, Carol? Really? My face hurts from hitting it!”

“Oh for fuck sakes Jimmy… Mind your stool. God forbid we laugh! If we don't, we're never going to make it through this.” She crosses her lean legs and winks to Jacks. “Go on honey.”

"Jesus, just read," Jim mumbles.

"Yes, sir." Jacks rustles through an enclosed folder — thumbing through a series photographs. “Bare with me...and honest, it's a lot. Might wanna take notes. This account is given on the 23rd of June, 2028, by Gunnery Sergeant Jake Taylor of the Georgia Federation Army.”

 

 

 

> I dictate the following by conscience, for history’s sake, in a somewhat unorthodox presentation. I do so with as much sober clarity and personal detail as this grave responsibility demands.
> 
> Yesterday at approximately 1300 hours, I was given a direct order from the presidential office to retrieve Captain James Foster’s widow and her two children, Bobby and Elizabeth “Ellie” Foster, whom will also be referred to as E.B. — per her childhood nickname.
> 
> Under presidential discretion, I was alerted to the terrible knowledge that the city of Atlanta and immediate surroundings was under threat.
> 
> The Federation has received previous warnings of various gravity to no avail, so at President Kelly Foster’s insistence, I was made privy to their nature…thus fully igniting my sense of urgency to the task.
> 
> I took two of my men and the presidential carriage and rode hard to the Captain’s farm home, just outside of Peachtree District.
> 
> Riding along their pine-lined dirt drive, I heard a woman’s voice shouting and halted. Having known the family myself, I engaged on foot, leaving the carriage some distance back.
> 
> My mind ran the potential situations. The summer night air was thick. All of the windows would surely be open. And the two-story dwelling, with it’s deep porch that wraps around the home — is quite a soft target to intruders.
> 
> When I reached the house she shouted again. I drew my firearm and stepped onto the porch, for a better vantage point. I watched from a window.
> 
> ’’Bobby it's OK! Baby I got you!” She used her whole body to turn him on his side, as his convulsions thrashed his weight against her.
> 
> 'Ellie! Ellie! Need your help!” The shrill of her need was desperate. I then lowered my weapon, confirming she was not in danger.
> 
> Their household bird kept screeching, adding to the madness.
> 
> “Shut him up, Ellie!”
> 
> Pressing upon the bed, she could do nothing but wait. I started to knock on the door to help, but finally the minutes that I know felt like hours eased — as she wiped the white from his beard. His muscles weakened and his eyes lost the struggle to open.
> 
> Rolling him on his back, she kneeled to hold his hand to hers. “It's OK baby...you're alright. Sleep.”  
> 
> Mrs. Foster washed the stick of humidity from her fair skin. Her breath was hard and her thin frame quite worn. As I stepped off the porch, I heard her charge through the kitchen and down the hall. Then Mrs. Foster fired out font, swinging the screen door wide. Marching to the end of the porch, she did not notice my presence. She appeared emotional before walking back across the porch to sit on a hanging swing.
> 
> That’s when she took notice of me.
> 
> She didn’t move. As a military family, she knows a  uniform at your door means nothing good.
> 
>  “Ma’am, sorry to bother.”
> 
>  Without a blink she asked, “How bad?”
> 
>  I was firm, but my nerves were strong.
> 
>  “I have orders to bring y'all in. It’s matter of state security. So, please gather your family.”
> 
> She was the type of exhausted that if you were full of energy the sight of her would tire you to your bones.
> 
> She was blunt. ”Ellie’s gone.”  
>     
>  "What do you mean?"  
>     
>   “Her horse…it’s gone.”
> 
>  My chest kicked. "When?"  
>    
>    She stepped down to me, and tenderly grabbed my hand. It softened me to the strength in her eyes. She could handle it.  
>     
>    "Jake, how bad?"  
>     
>    I resisted no more. “Code black ma’am.”  
>     
>    She wandered up to the sky, as if searching.
> 
>   "I'm to take you around the city to a secure location, and the president will meet you there. You'll go up together."  
>     
>    She let my hand go. In a trance, she then turned to peer through the window at her son. “25-years-old, asleep in his bed like a kid…10,” she said. “He's had 10 seizures today."  
>       
>    "Ma'am we need to go—“  
>     
>    "I know you still see her."  
>     
>  I averted my eyes — not ashamed, just caught. I had been seeing E.B. romantically for some months.  
>     
>  She turned back to me. "I didn't keep you from her because I hate you. It wasn't your age or the color of your skin…or your rank, or that you served under my husband….”  
>     
>    "Ma'am—“  
>     
>    “Jake, stop calling me ma'am! Look at my son.” She pointed. “22, shot in the head. His father blown into three pieces. You know, they talk about how the South has thrived, beat back the enemy and…and flourished...but they don't tell you how!” She spat her falling hair from her eyes. "Now, look at my daughter...tending to every mangled body coming back!”  
>     
>    Her arms took hold of my shoulders and squeezed mighty tight.  
>     
>    "I kept you from her, because if it was you, it would be the straw.” There were no tears. Just a resolute fierceness. “Bobby won’t make it Jake…do you hear what I’m saying?”
> 
> “But.…”
> 
> “No buts! Do you love her?”
> 
> I looked right her. “With all my heart.”
> 
> “Good. I’m counting on it…you must get her out. By any means.” Her eyes were as stern as any combat soldier I ever knew.
> 
> I nodded, knowing the cost to come. I’m sure she saw the fear. “And what do I tell her and the President, what—”
> 
> “Send one of your men, someone you trust. You have him tell Kel…Kelly… it wasn’t her fault. He chose this life at 17…when this soil was American. Say thank you. She’s been a role model to my daughter, yada, yada. I’m thankful…just that’s it. Nothing more.”
> 
> “E.B.?”
> 
> Mrs. Foster just crossed her arms over her chest, as if embracing herself. She looked back up to the sky with a smile. “Tell her she was my sunshine… And, never to forget what she started out loving….”
> 
> I listened. Then I requested for her to evacuate once more. She shoved me. “Go! Go! Get out of here!” Not in anger towards myself, but I believe devotion to saving her daughter.
> 
> I suppressed my emotion the best I could. But as the carriage rode away, I looked back. Mrs. Foster’s silhouette before that big wraparound porch — cotton dress kicking up in the summer wind. It sent my gut inside out.
> 
> A final goodbye.
> 
> It was not an easy call. But one I’m aware I will answer for. _I rightly should._

  
Jacks' fingers have tiny tattoos. Different symbols — one, is ring of crowns, where a wedding band would be. Another, wrapped up his index finger, like a serpent on a stick. And numbers, that blur together without any obvious meaning. His knuckles are scabbed and though clean, his strong hands still look dirty. If you look close, it's hard to miss that the little hairs on his right wrist have been burned away. Blotches of skin red enough, that they could still be hot to the touch.

Feeling the soreness in his throat, he eyes the mug at his left.

“Your podium,” Jim says.

Jacks swigs, coughing. He's smart, he doesn’t look up. _Don’t break rhythm.  
_

 

 

> By my return to the Georgia Federation’s military base, outside of downtown, evacuation orders had been issued citywide, from Old Marietta to Kennesaw Mountain. As routine, gate guards were in their ACU’s and armed, but were vigilant in protective masks.  
>    
>  I approached the gate at 19:00, to a Lance Corporal Yeun of the Duluth Regiment, and to whom I pressed. I was concerned as to what I witnessed on the road. The expected evacuation numbers were twice what I was seeing .  
>    
>  “I came up from the south ! Are we stressing the threat is eminent?”  
>    
>  “Yes, sir!Squads are going house-to-house by neighborhood.”    
>    
>  “ Then why am I not seeing results? ”  
>    
>  The hard-spoken private spoke true.“Three evacs this year,” he said. “The older generations… they are done running, sir. But the young, with kids…they’re on schedule, sir.”
> 
> This was a valid explanation, but was inadequate. “They think we’ll stop it don’t they?”  
>    
>  Yeun , sighed. ” Well, w e always have.”  
>    
>  I made effort to comprehend . And at that juncture needed to advise the C.O. promptly. I then tasked the private i n absolute presidential discretion , to deliver President Foster her sister-in-law’s words. And to bring back any reply. I did not know the kid personally, but his candor earned my trust.  
>    
>  Pushing in, t he base was mobilizing. Tents being deconstructed. Dozens of horse-pulled trucks loaded with gear and supplies and transports crammed with the wounded. Other wounded soldiers were being moved into company barracks.  
>    
>  I grabbed the first soldier I saw.  I do not recall her name.
> 
> My later decisions were informed by this very exchange.
> 
> She told me all viable wounded were to be deployed to Federation Depot Savannah. The remaining were being housed in the barracks. My anger was in response, that though barracks were being fortified, we were still leaving them behind, by efforts that seemed futile.  
>    
>  “What the hell does viable mean? Where’s the C .O. located?”  
>    
>  “Sir, President Foster’s orders. He left with the advance team. I’m to move med supplies under the protection of the Navy, per protocol and—“  
>    
>  I cut her off. My conscience grew heavy and my rage was mighty.  
>    
>  Shouts echoed almost directly.  
>    
>  “Give me my son!”  
>    
>  “You cant leave my husband you bastards let us in!”  
>    
>  The families of those not being evacuated, had occupied the back gate, and several were armed.  
>    
>  Before any action could be taken, shots were fired.
> 
> Mothers, wives, and children were wailing. Armed with a 9mm pistol, a father of an injured soldier shot an MP and in response a sniper shot from gate tower. Both were hit.  
>    
>  I knew I needed to get E.B. out before the place folded. However, I made the call to respond and secure the gate.  
>    
>  Oil lamps had been hit. The lack of lighting intensified the situation. Fathers — fingers on their trigger. Snipers locked on their heads. Two bodies strewn out.
> 
> I ordered Staff Sergeant Brice of the Cherokee Regiment to cease fire and to alert a corpsman, but was too late. Both bled out within minutes.  
>    
>  The sight was enough to neutralize the mob.  
>    
>  I personally saw to the disarming of all civilians surrounding the gate. Their motivations were clear and not lost on myself, or the accompanying soldiers. 
> 
> In turn made the following address: ‘Shooting my men will not get you your loved ones! As ranking soldier you are now under my authority. Is this what you want? It’s not what I want. I promise your disgust is my disgust. But here is reality. Please understand your husbands, sons, daughters — will likely not survive travel. That is why they are not being moved. We are implementing fallout procedures to give them their best shot. Now…If you choose to take them, as of right now, the Federation Army will not stop you. If you choose to stay, all arms will stay checked and you will be permitted to join your loved one.“  
>    
>  Several soldiers appeared to disagree, but my orders as highest ranking soldier on base were to be upheld.  
>    
>  “Starting now, you will have access to your loved ones and are to briefed on the situation. Even if I have to do it all myself. Please make your choices swiftly. Time is not on our side."  
>    
>  I took a knee at the foot of the slain. Bowing my head, I recited a passage from Psalms, then charged Brice with respectful removal of the bodies.

 

He squeezes his temples, rubbing at a layer of dried skin; peeling from the heat of the Georgia sun.

"Uhm...this next entry, some of his ink had not dried... It's uh, patchy. It appears to be a report more personal, at least in part, rather than operational. Taylor notes, that he does so to honor the wounded. left behind."

 "Jacks is there a time on this?" Shafiq asks. He looks too young to be here. Can hardly grow a beard. But he's the only one in here with a perfectly tied tie and pages of notes.

"Yeah man... gotta clock between 20:00 and 20:45, if this is correct."

He sips on Jim's mug and flips to the next photograph.

 

 

> Inside the barracks, there is a stench of a diseased people — rotten from wounds that will never heal.
> 
> By my count, there were some 200 men over-packing the Mess Hall. Windows were being boarded; air entries sealed.
> 
> Time had not allowed for beds to be moved. Mattresses were being drug from individual rooms and strewn on the floor.
> 
> One soldier was up against a wall. Forehead wrapped in fresh bandages.
> 
> E.B. sat beside him. My intent was to escort her out promptly, until I saw the soldier’s severed leg. It was clear amputation attempts had failed. Blood had soaked through his mattress. E.B. was attempting to cover it up.
> 
> As with Mrs. Foster, I stood back out of view, as she pulled a book from his lap.
> 
> _I recite the conversation to the best of my recollection._
> 
> The soldier then struggled to point.“I scribbled in the back, like a journal guess. You’ll see.”
> 
> She obeyed his request.  
>    
>  "Uhm. OK… _‘If you die you're_ _—‘_ I’m not reading this!”
> 
> Several soldiers turned when raised her voice.
> 
> He was flat on his back and begged upon her. “E.B., It’s OK. Please.”
> 
> “It’s not OK… but I will, but I’m not reading that line again!”
> 
> “Alright.”
> 
> “‘ _…completely_ _happy and your soul somewhere lives on. I'm not afraid of dying._ _Total peace after death, becoming someone else is the best hope I've...I’ve got._ _’_ ”  
>    
>  The small veins on her delicate face swelled. “ This is crap! ”  
>    
>  His voice was clear, strong. “E.B., it’s not. I’ve had it since I enlisted. Reminds me of…home.”
> 
> “But it’s not going to help—“
> 
> “E.B. I don’t wanna to believe God would force me…any of us to keep doin’ this. Look at me…I’m already dead. And with what’s comin’ just—”  
>    
>  "Maybe it won’t come! Maybe you’ll— “  
>    
>  "You know this ain’t the same …your aunt wouldn’t full evac if wasn’t. Just…the next…go on please. Where it's marked.”  
>    
>  Ellie, reluctant, looked to him, and saw how important it was to him, t hen went on through her broken voice. _“‘If people bring so much courage to this world_ _,_ _the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kill_ _…kill_ _s them._ _’ Uh, I hate this!_ _‘_ _The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills... It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry._ _’_ _”_  
>    
>  Having read that myself, I knew it by heart.  
>    
>  “I’m done reading!” She began to pour water and fix his dressings.
> 
> She is beautiful. The kind of beauty you stop for. But it’s her heart that takes you. As he watched her, it was evident he knew that.
> 
> I thought to approach. Time was moving quickly. But I could not.A nurse interrupted. “Nathan, sweetie…I’m sorry…are you ready?" she asked, quite solemnly.  
>    
>  Ellie shoved her medical kit closed with anger, as the soldier nodded. 
> 
> “Look at me.”
> 
> “I don’t want to!”
> 
> “I don’t care.” 
> 
> She gave in and faced him. Against her normal character, she became emotional.
> 
> He reached for her arm, as the nurse appeared to be prepping.
> 
> “Your eyes turn teal when you cry did you that?”
> 
> “No, I…” She tried to hold it together.
> 
> “Let me tell you about home.”
> 
> “OK…”
> 
> “Near Charleston… My momma, she has this room of ocean paintings. She’s really good…” he spoke like a boy telling of his dreams. “The whole room is that color…” Alluding to her eyes.
> 
> He started fading. E.B. tried to keep him talking. “Is that the place I first read that book?”
> 
> “Yes…she gave it to me as a kid. We’d sit out on our porch and look out to the water, her with a brush in her hand, me with a book….”  
>    
>  “My momma and I sit out on our porch too…why…why would you leave that ?”  
>    
>  "Same as your father and brother I think … I wanted her to keep it. If y a want life E.B. you must fight for it."  
>    
>  “ But, but you are not ! ”  
>    
>  "Don't do that…it’s not the same. Here, I want y a to keep it. Your tough E.B., really tough. With what’s gonna happen, you don’t know…I hope your never here…but if you are, promise me … that you’ll let it break you …really break you…cause your strong enough to let it will rebuild you…even stronger . ” 
> 
> She began to cry and would not relent. At first it surprised me. But how could they? This torchured soul was choosing this.
> 
> And I was struck myself, at his candor and selflessness. His stories were not for him, but for her. I felt indebted to this young man.
> 
> The nurse waited patiently, prepared, but visibly struggling with her task.
> 
> “I want you to go now E.B.,please. My choice. And you shouldn’t see.”
> 
> "No, no!" she yelled. “Nathan please! Please!” A female corpsman saw her from across the room and rushed to help drag her away.
> 
> I started to go intervene when an elderly volunteer approached me.
> 
> “I’ve never seen her like this,” she said. “I’ve worked here a long time. She’s always been her father.Immovable…stoic even.
> 
> I looked at her, questioning her intent. But I could see she meant well.
> 
> “You know, under that, she gives a piece of herself, like she’s a little bit in love with them all. But—“  
>    
>  “She has to be,” I said.  
>    
>  “What do you mean?”  
>    
>  “It’s the only way they can die feeling loved. No better medicine, ma’am.”
> 
> “But it all comes with a cost son…”  
>    
>  I turned towards the soldier. Ellie was out of sight. The nurse held his arm and slowly injected.
> 
> Then the volunteer and I watched the nurse hold his hand as his breathing slowed to a stop.  
>    
>  It was still.  
>    
>  And quietly the old woman whispered, “The cost was too much .”
> 
> Then she was gone.  
>    
>  Before I could process, Private Yeun called out from behind, ushering me. “Gunny!”

 

Jacks stops, loosens his stance and looks out to his listeners. “This is next…well…” His voice strains, in a regretful set up. 

“It’s OK, just read it,” Carol said.

Jacks nods.

 

> Private Yeun called out from behind, ushering me. “Gunny!”I was surprised to see him so quick. He handed me a letter with the presidential seal. Two lines.
> 
> “I’m staying with my city. _Get her out._ "
> 
>  

Carol gets up and slowly paces through the room; hands clenching the back of her neck. A couple of ladies are in tears, others sunk in a profound mix of anger and loss.

"Continue,” Jim deadpans, from a stool to the side.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Carol slowly turns back to Jim, with a controlled fire inside of her. “Did you not hear? Kelly is gone. The president went down with her ship. I'm sure we'll battle the admirability of that choice. But..." Carol picks up the black brief off her desktop and plops it to the ground. “This op? Trash. It's no longer a hypothetical. Don’t you think it’s time we stop dicking around?" She pauses. "I see the way some of you are looking at me. I don't say this flippantly. She was my asset. My friend. Not yours. But I don't have time to grieve. We need an actionable strategy, now. I've know the consequences of in action. Yes, you are sleep deprived. But every person in this room is brilliant and capable.” She sits back down and clicks her pen, “Let’s go.” 

Voices uprise, talking over each other.  


“What is dicking around exactly?”

“Can we process this a minute, I mean…”

“Shit, I’m I the only one that’s angry? She killed everything we've worked for!”

“Can we finish please…Jim, we need to hear this.”

“I wasn’t saying not to finish. It’s imperative we do so.” Carol quips.

Jim whistles to shut everyone up. “Jesus! Truth? You are all right. She and the GFA, were the pinnacle of our operation. It's catastrophic. I don’t…I don’t disagree Carol. I've walked this before, as you have if you can recall. But, this assessment period is necessary, before we jump. Jacks has the floor. He’s been there. We’ve not. I want his opinion today. Not usually his role. But, Jacks?”

His voice has become so horse, the muscles of his neck tire. “Honest, I’m a straight shooter. The rubble…no you weren’t there. I’ve seen some shit. But this was…” He pauses, then directs over to Jim. “My AAR will tell you the survivors, the refugees — how they migrate, who they become, will shape your entire future operation. A vital scope of that, is in the Gunny’s last entry. Let’s honor this aloud, and not let it become just some…pages you read in a brief. Then I’ll be happy to give you my one cent.”

He’s not asking. He picks up the next photograph.

 

> I found her cutting bandages; dry-eyed.
> 
> She’s spent her whole life around strength. Her dad and her brother, proud military men. Her aunt the president of a Federation. Her mother, the glue. She doesn’t know how to stop or how to break and let the world put it back together. All she knows is how to beat it back and keep on.  
>    
>  “Jake? What’s that look?” she said, seeing me standing there.  
>    
>  “It’s getting bad out there E.B....”  
>    
>  “Yeah…and she’ll regret this. She’ll stop whatever it is. She’ll have left all of these soldiers behind for nothing.You know,” she looks to me, with a disheartenment in her eyes. “I’ve never been let down by her until now...”  
>    
>  “E.B. that soldier was right. Not this time. This is diff—”  
>    
>  “Can you hand me those sheers?”  
>    
>  At this time it was precisely21:30 hours. It was the moment I knew I had to lie. And then the pain set in.  
>    
>  “I took your mother and Bobby to the station. They’re going to your cousin’s.”
> 
> That got her attention.  
>    
>  “What? Are you serious?”  
>    
>  “Yes. ”  
>    
>  “He can’t travel!“  
>    
>  “They found away.”  
>    
>  “OK, good.” She smiled at me. “My cousin’s a doctor , or used to be… anyways h e can take care of Bobby… I can stay with you.”
> 
> Then I knew I had to scare her. I grabbed her the way her mother grabbed me and didn’t let her cut in.  
>    
>  “Baby, really look at me. I can tell you this because you can take it. There is no stopping this. It’s not Militia. Do you know what I am saying?”
> 
> She knew enough, to realize the intelligence passed to me, was worthy of the fear.
> 
> “We’ve studied it…I’ve seen the pictures in old books. A flash of light so bright it will take eyes…followed by a blast so strong it will knock heads off bodies…kill you instantly…if your lucky. And if not… The Japs called it a pillar of fire. It will incinerate organs. You hear me?”
> 
> She shook back. Then she closed her eyes, as if to imagine it in her mind.
> 
> “But the radiation E.B. is more quiet. Slowly kill you from the inside… now or later.
> 
> “Hibakusha,” she said, opening her eyes. “The survivors.”
> 
> “Yes… that is what they called them.”
> 
> “Daddy, he uh, told me a story about them. The women. Their faces. They were shunned for years by their own people. Just the sight of them…people would…”
> 
> There was a horror in her eyes. “I forgot that that he told me that…”  
>    
>  “Listen, I’m taking the president to a secure location,” I lied. But it gave her a resolution. “Give me your stuff. Change over. I got a report to submit. Then we go.”
> 
> She looked out to the soldiers, row after row and to Nathan’s empty bed. “OK. I understand now…”
> 
> And she did.
> 
>  

"Last page," Jacks says thumbing.

 

 

 

> The West Atlanta Train Station was a sight I had never seen. This is where everyone had gone.
> 
> The Fulton Regiment was tasked with loading passengers and keeping order. Word had been given of the incident at the base gate. So, they were not allowing for any error. Weapons were drawn. Some pressed in faces.  
>    
>   Because of the mass numbers, they were only loading the very young and women in cases of visual pregnancy or ones with small children; babies and toddlers.
> 
> Train car after train car, was flooded of crying children. My mind went to a film I saw as a kid. Titanic. Seems trivial to reduce it to a movie. But for you, who have received this record, I compare it to accurately describe this event in history. Picture the boats.  
>    
>   Mothers and fathers crying goodbye. Many slipping notes of addresses in their 5-year-old’s pockets. “It’s OK, your aunt will care for you.”  
>    
>  “Be a good boy.“  
>    
>  “Be a sweet girl.  
>    
>  “Look out for the other kids.”  
>    
>  Some soldiers were ripping reluctant kids from their parents. Their screams were haunting.  
>    
>  E.B. didn't say a word. Maybe she assumed because of who she was, that her mom and brother got on.  
>    
>  23:00, the soldiers began cutting off lines. Cars running out of room and it was near time for depart.
> 
> I began to rush E.B. to where I needed to get her on board. Then it happened. A little boy, just behind the cut off line. Bright red curly hair. Freckles on his nose. His grandmother was in hysterics. “He is only four! I can’t send him alone.” She screamed violently. They wouldn’t take her. She wasn’t the mother. At this point I would not have been surprised if the Fulton boys apprehended her.  
>    
>  E.B. was fixed on them. I took her hand, but she kept looking back.
> 
> The horns began to blare. Right then she turned to me, as resolute as her mother. Those eyes, so blue, I was struck. There was a yearning, but also a sorry. A goodbye. I knew. So, I pulled her close. She nudged her face to the crevice of my neck. I whispered, “I love you.” And she cupped my cheek and said, “With all my heart."  
>    
>  My Nanna told me once, that there was a time a black man and a white girl would be as shunned as those Jap survivors. I could never imagine that. The problems of the world must have been so vain, that ones skin color could ever dictate love.  
>    
>  I held her hand as long as I could. As a soldier we train to a certain hardened posture. But as she pulled us apart, I was not a soldier, I was as a man, and everything hurt.
> 
> All I could see through the cries and yells of the crowd, was her embracing the old woman, “It's OK momma I'm here,” she lied. 
> 
> The old woman smiled with a joy and sorrow I have never known. “My sweet girl! She’s here! Please let them through!”  
>    
>  E.B. took the boy in her arms and walked to the nearest soldier. He must of seen me with her, because he looked to me for approval. I nodded.
> 
> She looked back one last time. That little boy on her hip. When she blew me a kiss, her dress kicked up just like her mother’s.
> 
> She concealed her tears. So did I.
> 
> As they shut the doors and the steam billowed, it departed.
> 
> A train of orphans.  
>    
>  That little boy saved me from more lies I surely would’ve had to tell. I’m thankful.
> 
> Right now E.B. is searching car after car. And her family is not to be found. One day I hope she can understand and forgive me.
> 
> But I don’t expect it. I may not deserve it.  
> 
> 
> It's just past 00:30 hours and I am sending this report onto Savannah, with the last push out. I’m in great hope it survives. I'm also enclosing President Foster’s note and last order.
> 
> I, too, am staying with my city and my injured brothers and sisters.  
>    
>  Don’t let history forget them.  
>    
>  Sincerely,  
>    
>  Gunnery Sergeant Jake Taylor, Georgia Federation Army.

 

It’s not the audio from the black box of a 9/11 plane, but it’s just as harrowing in words. 

They sit for a moment in them. Some bowing their heads.

It's not numbers. It's real. 

Jim wipes his red eyes with the back his hand. “And the girl?" he asks, with crack in his voice.  
  
“We spoke to her cousin in Alabama... She’s not yet arrived.”

“We were too late,” Carol says, drying her eyes.

There is no chatter. No arguing. Just an overwhelming sense of loss.

“Thank you Jacks... Sure that wasn’t easy,” Jim says.  
  
Standing up from his stool, he visibly looks older than he did, just an hour ago. "Jacks, your ground op, what are your thoughts?'

He stacks the letter in its place. Back into the box. He's thinking. Cautious; measured.

Everyone waits. 

“Thirty minutes,” he says, quietly. “That’s all I can see. Cause that's what this was. What did he do in those thirty minutes? Did he go sit with the injured? Did he finish cutting those bandages?” Jacks braces on the podium.

“Heroism… He followed the last order of his Commander and Chief. Sacrificed himself for the woman he loved and died with his men. I mean, that’s what we’re doing all this for right? To save it?" He rests his face on a hand, gripping at his jaw. He takes the time to focus on each each face. “I’m just the guy that swings the hammer. The guy that goes where you send him. But, uh…It’s not a decade lost. It's a decade learned. So, what do we do?” He turns to Jim intently, “We don’t leave this room until we’ve answered that.”

Jacks steps back. He heads up the stairs of the lecture hall to sit with his guys; the rugged and harsh looking ones. The ones with sight of the rubble in their eyes.

But halfway up, Jacks stops. ”Hibakusha,” he says in a low husky tone.

“What?” Jim asks.

“The Japanese survivors. It does literally translates as explosion-affected people.”

He clenches the back of his neck and quietly asks _, "What will we call the children?"_

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

*****CODA*****

_First scene. Chapter one._

 

 

**1**

**“Despair”**

 

\-- v. To lose or give up; the absence of hope.

The absence of hope, is hopelessness; a loss of hope so complete as

to result in a more or less permanent

state of passive despair.

 

**2.5 years after the fall**

 

Her room is suffocated with paper clippings and scribbled reports. You can't see the walls, but for one concrete space etched with words hand-written in blood red: He will judge the living and the dead.

The sound is eerily still. Silent, if not for the dripping. Drip…drip…drip. The constant dripping; the mind-numbing dripping — pooled to a puddle, staining the slab floor. Leaky IV bags — a consequence of a world that lost its modernization.

The coal-black drapes on a tiny window, desaturates light — casting a grey melody that is unheard, yet sharp to the ears.

A small iron bed is pushed up against the right corner of the room, flaking its paint.

She lays face up, eyes open — uncovered; right hand fallen over the side; lifeless. Her bones press up against her skin; transparent. The weight loss has made her almost unrecognizable. She will not eat, nor sleep. She just stares.

She'd be dead if she wasn't loved, but one could argue that she is already dead.

The silence begins to fill of song — a sweet, sweet song.

"T'was Grace that taught my heart to fear.

And Grace, my fears relieved.

How precious did that Grace appear

The hour I first believed..."

It's late Sunday afternoon. Her nurse, Meg, like every Sunday, sits beside her in an old wooden rocking chair — singing hymns from Sunday service.

Meg is a petite full-figured African-American woman, in her late 60s. Her voice is soft, peaceful; nourishment to a barren spirit.

Since her patient went catatonic, Meg tacks the week's verse over her bed. Whether she'd want them or not — If this frail woman is aware of her surroundings, shedoesn't want all she sees to be the horrors of the past.

 

     

     


She combs the corner wall for the perfect spot. “Oh, how nice,” she twinkles, at the color of a child's drawing stuck up with her hymns. 

Letting out her smile, she fans her patient's salty face. "It's time to bathe honey… You're just as drenched as you can be."

She doesn't let her body go — no, Meg makes sure she has her bath and clean clothes everyday. Sometimes she even puts a little rouge on Annie's cheeks and lips; anything that might make her feel alive.

"Excuse me ma'am, did I just hear Tina Turner? Or is it Janet?" Mike quips, as he walks through door showered in dust.

Getting up to greet him, she blushes. "Now Chief, you best keep that up, an old woman needs to hear these things….”

As he takes off his rustic, wide-brimmed hat — Meg narrows at him. “You know better than to come in here covered in all that muck. Give that here!” she snatches. “Boots too! And don’t you go rollin’ them eyes, sir.”

“Look, not even going to blink,” he says comically, keeping his eyes wide open.

Her robust chest chuckles at him. “Well you should think about more than blinkn’ — a little thing called sleep.You about as worn as the leather of these boots.”

There is a smile behind his eyes — though the lines around them run deep; deeper than the years he’s lived. 

“Mike, stand on back now, brush off that shirt,” she shews.

“Yes ma’am.” He obliges, standing in the door frame; gun on his hip. He’s attractive — though his rough exterior could be taken as undistinguished. His brown hair curls up under his ears; specks of age scatter in his beard. There is a quiet gravitas there. 

Meg shakes her head at the yuck draining in the sink. “Mm, mm. I swear this mess is everywhere...I just keep on prayin' for rain. It’s a comin' I tell ya...I can feel it”

Meg eyes his feet from the sink. “I wonder how many holes you figure you got in them socks… Cabinet.”

He steps on in the room, grabs a newly sewn cotton pair from the drawer, and sits in the rocking chair beside Annie.His dark eyes and full brow fail expression as he looks upon her. ”How…how’s our girl doing today?"

Meg sets the Chief’s things beside the bed and rests her hand on his shoulder.

”Honestly, she's lost a couple more pounds. I've doubledfluids and we all keep on tryin' to get some liquids down... I've managed some, but..." Hesitating, she grits her lips, "It's not enough.”

Batting back her emotion, she detaches Annie's IV. 

"Oh, perfect! Go on back Teddy,” whose wheeling in a cart of steamy jugs, “I was just about to send for it.”

As a mother would, Meg gathers the damp bed sheet off of Annie, releasing a sigh. “Even with a pulled drape….”

Mike takes a hard swallow as he watches. It’s not just sweat.

"Oh dear," Meg says, shutting her eyes. "It's time we talk to doc.”

The chair creeks, like an old porch swing, as he kneels beside the bed. Softly he says, "Let me."

Meg nods, handing him the sheets. Silently she lays out a clean robe for Annie. “I’m going to get some of that lavender you love dear… I’ll be right back.” 

Mike removes his holster and pulls the Glock from the waist of his back. He braces her body against his. Then one leg at a time, he slides off her soiled cotton pants and removes her oversized t-shirt, as a parent would a child.

She use to hold herself up more. Now she's just...there. But if you sit right in her line of sight, it's almost as if she is looking at you.

And he does.

He needs to pretend.

“Chief, give the water a minute to cool. Fresh towels and that lavender are in there. Holler if you need me," Megwhispers, kissing the top of his head.

The door closes.

He sweeps strands of hair from Annie's blue eyes and pulls her in, like a first hello. "I'm sorry I, I would have come this morning. This town…it's work. But…I think you'd respect these people.“ He cups her cheeks. “Rachel….”

She doesn't flinch hearing her own name or the sound of a voice she knows.

“Rach…It's me…I know you can hear me.“ Miles lingers, searching. Clinching every muscle in his face, he drops his head.Everyday he tries. And everyday it guts him just a bit more.

_It’s taking all he’s got.  
_

 

 

 

 


End file.
